


Traveler

by bluehasnoclues



Series: harry potter oneshots [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Female Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, apologies in advance for any spelling/grammar errors, wrote this in 2017 as one of my first fanfics and found it today and was like... hey might as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 15:08:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17266436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluehasnoclues/pseuds/bluehasnoclues
Summary: Sherlock trusted his deductions; they were rarely wrong, and even then, ever only by a few details.But this woman... she was different.





	Traveler

 

Sherlock Holmes paused in confusion, looking at the list of phone numbers that lay in front of him.  Something didn’t match up.  There was one more person than he had accounted for, one of which that he didn’t have a phone number. 

He had already planned everything down to the last detail, but this person… he didn’t even know their _gender_.  They were the variable, and he had bittersweet feelings about variables.  Sherlock hated being out of the loop… but he hated being bored even more, so he would ignore this person for now.  The detective had other things to do, other people to piss off.

Sherlock’s finger hovered over the ‘send’ button, watching the screen in front of him and waiting for the right moment to arrive.  He had wired a camera so that it aimed directly at where Donovan and Lestrade would be standing, and was waiting somewhat patiently for them to say something about how the suicides connected to each other.

After what seemed like hours, but in reality was probably only minutes, Lestrade said the line, and Sherlock sent the text.  He smiled as the people on the screen each looked down at their phones, their faces perfect pictures of confusion.

“If you’ve all got texts, please ignore them,” Detective Donovan said to the murmuring crowd.

“It just says ‘wrong’,” A reporter informed her.

“Yeah, well, just ignore that.  Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I’m going to bring this session to an end.”

Another reporter spoke up, but Sherlock wasn’t listening to what he was saying, already busy preparing the next text.  Soon enough, another message appeared on every person’s phone in attendance… except one.  It said the same thing as before.  _Wrong!_

Lestrade made a snide comment and Donovan leaned in to warn him.  Sherlock prepared the next text, this time, with one specifically for the Detective Inspector.

**You know where to find me.**

**SH**

Lestrade read the text, then stood and thanked his audience.  Sherlock smiled, then jumped as his own phone pinged.  He quickly opened up the message that was waiting for him, expecting it to be Lestrade telling him off.  To his surprise, it was from an unknown number.

**Having fun, are we?  I want in.  I will be the one accompanying your new flat mate.**

**HP**

_New flat mate?_  Sherlock thought curiously.  He knew that he was supposed to be meeting someone soon, but how did this ‘HP’ person know that they would become flat mates? _I guess I will find out soon,_ Sherlock said to himself, promptly receding into his Mind Palace to try to work out who this mysterious person was, and how they managed both to avoid him and find his unlisted number. 

 

* * *

 

Harry Potter was bored.  She sat in a small café, waiting for the person she was tracking to arrive.  He did not know that she would be there, of course, and he certainly didn’t know her by her real name.  In the presence of important people, or really just people in general, she went by the name of Jameson.

Harry wanted to see this particular person’s reaction to what she was about to do, so she bided her time as she pretended to use the laptop that was sitting in front of her.  It was on and ready to preform, but she couldn’t have any distractions.  Not with what she was about to do.

The man walked in, and she hid a grin.  How she knew that he would be there was something that only she knew, and she wasn’t about to tell anyone.  Harry quickly turned to the computer screen and typed furiously, the lines of code appearing on her screen instantaneously.  She quickly bypassed the multiple firewalls and redundant security measures, and set to work.

Not a minute had gone by when his phone began to ring.  The man looked down, a small frown showing on his face as he saw the caller ID.  He picked up hesitantly, looking slightly worried.

“Yes, sir?”  His voice was quiet, but Harry could hear it from where she was sitting. However, this did not deter her from her task.  The man nodded his head at what the person on the other side had told him.

“I understand, sir.  Unfortunately, that’s not really his expertise.”  He nodded again.  “Okay, I will tell him.  I don’t know if he’ll listen, though.”  He hung up, looking around the café tiredly.  As his eyes glided over Harry, she gave him a small smirk, and beckoned him over.  The man walked over slowly, his face held carefully blank.  She could see through him, though.  She had years upon years of practice.

“Mycroft Holmes.  Fancy seeing you here.”

His eyes were filled with wariness, but held hints of curiosity, which was something that Harry suspected ran in the family.  This was all the reaction he allowed himself to show.  “Do I know you?”

“In a way,” She answered him.  “You know me as Jameson.”  Mycroft looked at her incredulously.

“Impossible.  We traced back the signal.  Jameson lives in America.  Connecticut.”

Harry shrugged.  “I’ve never actually been to Connecticut, but I’m rather fond of the way it’s spelled.  And, if I was Jameson, wouldn’t I have the skills to fake something like that?”

“Do you mean to tell me, that you hacked into the British Government’s server and changed every undercover agent’s last name to ‘your mum’ from the local café?”

She shrugged again.  “It was to get your attention.  And I was bored, waiting for Sherlock to get a flat mate so I can crash the party.”

“What do you want with Sherlock?”  Mycroft all but growled.  His protective brotherly side was showing, causing Harry to smile. 

“He seems more interesting than all of you lot,” She said with a grin.  “I don’t care if you tell him about my reputation.  I’ve already peaked his interest, and you should know your brother well enough to know that he’d find me, especially if you were the one who hid me.”

“What do you mean by that?”  He asked her, sounding slightly affronted.

“Doesn’t matter,” she brushed off his question.  “Pont is, now you have seen the infamous Jameson, and I’m a little less bored.  Nice to finally meet face-to-face, Mycroft.”  And with that, she left.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was standing at a table in Bart’s Lab, using a pipette to squeeze drops of liquid into a Petri dish, when he heard a knock at the door.  One of his acquaintances, a man named Mike, walked in.  Another man followed him and began to limp around the room, looking at the various equipment.

“Well, this is a bit different from my day,” the man looking around said.  Mike chuckled, but Sherlock ignored him, along whatever he said next.  He assumed that the curious one was his supposed new flat mate, which led him to believe that HP was there.  It obviously wasn’t Mike, and it couldn’t have been the disabled one, so HP must have been lagging behind, out of sight.  For some reason, Sherlock felt the impulse to show off, and it was strangely stronger than usual.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?  There’s no signal on mine.”  Sherlock said aloud.  He knew that Mike had left it in his coat, of course.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?”  Mike asked him, and Sherlock internally groaned.

“I prefer to text.”

“Sorry,” Mike said, confirming what the detective already knew.  “It’s in my coat.”  The man with the limp reached into his pocket and took out his own, offering it to Sherlock.

“This is an old friend of mine.  John Watson,” Mike introduced.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”  Sherlock asked, with his attention on what he was typing.  Both of the men frowned, and he internally rolled his eyes.  “Which was it?  Afghanistan or Iraq?”  He had to clarify, briefly raising his eyes to John’s before looking back to the phone.  John hesitated and then looked to Mike, confused.  Mike smiled smugly, and a young girl in a lab coat entered holding a cup of coffee.

“Ah, Molly, coffee.  Thank you,” Sherlock said to the person that he considered his assistant.  Then he looked back up, and asked, “What happened to the lipstick?”  She looked at him awkwardly.

“It wasn’t working for me,” she replied, obviously uncomfortable.  Sherlock, as always, remained oblivious.  Or perhaps he simply didn’t care.

“Really?”  He asked rudely.  “I thought it was a big improvement.  Your mouth’s too small now.”

“Leave the poor woman be,” a voice interrupted his thoughts.  “I see you’re still as obnoxious as ever.”

A woman walked through the door.  She was short but looked as if she worked out on a daily basis.  She wore baggy clothes that covered almost every inch of her – only her hands were visible, with skin as pale as paper peeking out from behind her jacket sleeves.  She had a laptop case slung over her shoulder that looked well-worn, but was still in amazing condition.  The woman held herself confidently, her eyes shining rebelliously, as if she was almost daring Sherlock to say something back.  He could see her bright green eyes from where he was standing, contrasting her long dark brown hair.

 “Call me Jameson.  Or Harry.  No preference.”

Sherlock made sure to keep his face only mildly interested. “Have we met before?”

"No, you don't know me, but I know you.  I would apologize for how creepy that sounds, but I don't care all that much. Hello, John.  I know you too, sorry for sounding like a stalker."  She internally smiled as Sherlock looked offended.

"Why does John get an apology, but you don't care to give me one?"

"Because you don't give a crap, and even if you did, you were just very rude to poor Molly over there."  Harry gestured to the girl that had taken up residence in the corner, no doubt trying to be forgotten.  "Now you guys can get back to doing whatever you guys were doing.  I'm just tagging along, but Sher knew that I would be here."

"But..."  John was confused.  "I thought he didn't know you."

"He doesn't," Harry replied simply.  "I texted him."  John looked like he wanted to comment, but he remained silent.  Sherlock nodded once at Harry, then turned his attention back to John.

“How do you feel about the violin?”  John glanced at Mike who was smiling smugly before realizing that Sherlock was talking to him.

“I’m sorry, what?”  John asked for clarification.  Harry let out a small grin, but no one seemed to notice.  Mike looked proud, John was still confused, and Sherlock was typing on a laptop keyboard as he talked.

“I play the violin while I’m thinking.  Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.  Would that bother you?  Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other.”  He smiled falsely at John, who then looked at Mike.

“Oh, you… you told him about me?”  John asked. _He seems to ask things a lot of questions that have obvious answers_ , Sherlock thought.

“Not a word,” Mike replied.

“Then who said anything about flat mates?”  John turned to Sherlock again, who was picking up his coat and putting it on.

“ _I_ did.  Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for.  Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan.  Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”  He downplayed it, hoping that the woman would notice.  He needed to gauge her reaction if he was to deduce anything about her. 

“For which to find a flat mate,” Harry muttered, rolling her eyes.  “Don’t end a sentence with a preposition.”

Sherlock ignored her.

“How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?”  Sherlock also ignored this question, wrapped his scarf around his neck, then picked up his mobile and checked it.

“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London.  Together we ought to be able to afford it.  We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock.  Sorry, I have to dash.  I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

Harry picked at her dark blue nail polish absentmindedly, one of her worse habits.  Sherlock was being himself… or at least, just as his file had said he would be.  It disappointed her.  Most people’s files tended to be spot-on, and she was hoping that Sherlock would be different.  She wanted someone interesting.  Someone not… boring.  Unfortunately, with her level of functioning, there wasn’t really anybody that she found _interesting_.  

Harry looked up, pulled out of her thoughts as Sherlock walked to the door and closed it almost all of the way.  She was already standing outside, so he was right in front of her as he poked his head back in to address his new flat mate.  She felt a shiver run through her; at what, she didn’t know.  Perhaps it way his 6’ 0” figure towered above her small 5’ 3” frame.  It may have been the thought of finally, _finally_ coming that close to someone that was almost as brilliant as she was.  Harry couldn’t be sure, but she filed the information away nonetheless.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.”  Sherlock said to John, and shut the door, turning to the girl standing before him.

“Why hello, Sherlock Holmes,” she said cheekily.  “May I call you Sher?”  


* * *

 

The woman’s trembling hand reached down to the floor, reaching toward a clear glass bottle that stood on the floorboards.  The bottle held three large capsules.  Her fingers closed around it, her hands still shaking.  She popped off the cork and shook one of the pills into her open palm, taking it in one swift move, downing them with the water beside her.  Only minutes later, she fell toward the floor, pink overcoat spreading over the plain wood.

 

* * *

 

“It’s very uncommon for people to know more about me than I know about them,” Sherlock told Harry in a low voice.  They were still outside the room where Sherlock had moments ago left John and Mike.  “How?”

 “What do you mean, ‘how’?”  Harry replied innocently, then her face grew darker.  “Can’t someone be cleverer than the great Sherlock Holmes, or is that against the rules?”

“Oh, cleverer than me.  What an interesting way to look at things.”  He obviously did not believe her, so she just brushed him off.

“You have to get to the flat so that John isn’t left there all alone,” Harry reminded the man beside her, and he glared back.

“I don’t _have_ to do anything,” he muttered insolently, but nodded nevertheless and flagged down a cab.  They both got in, Sherlock moving as far away from the woman as possible.  It didn’t take long for them to get there.  John was already limping along the road.

“Hello,” Sherlock greeted, reaching through the cab window to hand some money to the driver.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” John said, turning towards him.

“Sherlock, please,” He replied, quickly correcting his soon-to-be flat mate.  The two shook hands as Harry watched from behind them, completely forgotten.  She didn’t mind, though.  She was used to it.

“Well, this is a prime spot.  Must be expensive,” John said.  Harry smiled behind his back.

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal.  Owes me a favour.  A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida.  I was able to help out.”  Sherlock told him.

“Sorry – you stopped her husband being executed?”  John looked almost shocked, and Harry couldn’t help the urge to butt in.

“Nope,” She said, reminding both boys that she was still there.  “He ensured it.”  Harry smiled thinly at both of them as the door was opened.

“Sherlock, hello,” An old woman said from the doorway.  Sherlock hugged her briefly, then stepped back to introduce John.

“Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson.”  Harry stayed back as they talked, feeling strangely left out.  Normally, she didn’t care if she was ignored, but at that moment?  She wanted to be recognized.  She didn’t want to be _forgotten_ , especially not with _Sherlock_ _Holmes_ there.  The girl felt like she had something to prove to Sherlock, so that he would accept her. She knew that what she was feeling was completely irrational.  The great Sherlock Holmes did not accept people, not in the way she wanted.  He didn’t even have friends!  

But, Harry had a feeling that if John went through with it and moved in with the genius, they would grow to be fond of each other.  That was just the way people worked.

Harry didn’t know why she was feeling this strongly, but she didn’t particularly enjoy the feeling.  In fact, she _detested_ it.  She had never before cared about what people thought; why was she starting to now?  Caring led to dependency, and Harry knew from experience that she couldn’t rely on anybody.  

After the war… caring had only hurt.

And Sherlock Holmes?  Maybe she was underestimating him.  Maybe she was overestimating herself. Maybe…

She shook her head to clear her thoughts.  She couldn’t go down this road again, couldn’t doubt herself anymore.  It would only lead to her destruction, and she knew that she had no one to help her.  Harry had to take care of herself.  She had been doing it for as long as she could remember. There was no reason to stop now.  

Feeling slightly rejuvenated, but at the same time oddly tired, Harry bounded up the stairs after the boys.  She walked in the room just as Mrs. Hudson walked out of the kitchen, bringing with her a newspaper.

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock?  I thought that’d be right up your street.  Three exactly the same,” Mrs. Hudson announced.  Harry smiled. _Time to see the great detective in action._

A car pulled up outside, and Sherlock walked over to the window.  “Four,” he corrected.  “There’s been a fourth.  And there’s something different this time.”

“A fourth?”  Mrs. Hudson asked, sounding concerned.  Sherlock turned to the door as a man trotted up the stairs and into the living room.  Harry recognized him as Detective Inspector Lestrade – his file had been interesting, in a very boring way.

“Where?”  Sherlock asked him.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” the man replied.

“What’s new about this one?  You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know how they never leave notes?”

“Yeah.”

“This one did.  Will you come?”

“Who’s on forensics?”  Sherlock asked.

“It’s Anderson,” Lestrade told him, looking slightly worried.

“Anderson won’t work with me,” He said and grimaced.

“Well, he won’t be _your_ assistant.”

“I _need_ an assistant.”

“I’ll be your assistant,” Harry piped.

“No,” Sherlock snapped.  “Not you.”

“Why?”  She asked him, genuinely curious.

“You irritate me.  I can’t read anything useful off of you.”

“But you _can_ read me,” Harry pointed out.  “Just wait until you meet Irene.”

“Irene?”  Sherlock asked.  “Never mind.  Lestrade, I’ll come, but not in a police car.  I’ll be right behind.  HP, stay here.”

“Thank you,” Lestrade said, looking at Harry oddly before leaving.  Sherlock waited until the Detective Inspector had reached the front door, then leaped into the air before twirling around the room happily.

“Brilliant!  Yes!  Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note!  Oh, it’s Christmas!”  He picked up his coat and scarf and headed for the kitchen.  “Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be late.  Might need some food.”

“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper,” She gently corrected him.

“Something cold will do.  John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home.  Don’t wait up!”

“Look at him, dashing about! _My_ husband was just the same.”  Harry smiled at Mrs. Hudson’s implication that John and Sherlock were together. “But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell,” The landlady continued.  “I’ll make you that cuppa.  You rest your leg.”

“ _Damn_ my leg!”  John shouted, and Mrs. Hudson looked at him in shock.  John quickly apologized. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just sometimes this bloody thing…”

“I understand, dear; I’ve got a hip,” She comforted him.

“Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you,” John said.

“Just this once, dear.  I’m not your housekeeper.”

“Couple of biscuits too, if you’ve got ’em,” John added.

“Not your housekeeper!”  Harry smiled at their banter, and Sherlock walked back in, addressing John.

“You’re a doctor.  In fact, you’re an Army doctor,” He half-asked half-told John.

“Yes,” John confirmed.

“Any good?”  Sherlock asked him.

“Very good,” John said.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.”  Sherlock continued.

“Bloody hell, just ask him to go with you!”  Harry said loudly.  “Enough of this roundabout-ness!  Hurry up and get to it so I can follow you and pretend to have been able to get there on my own!”

John looked at her, surprised.  “At least she’s honest,” he told Sherlock.

“Honest.  Yes,” the detective replied hesitantly.  “Want to come with?”

“Oh _God_ , yes,” John said fervently, and Harry smiled again. _Took them long enough,_ she thought as they walked out together.  They didn’t bother to say anything to her.  She hoped that they had gotten the point that they wouldn’t be able to sway her on this.

She didn’t actually have to follow them to get there.  She had just said that so that she didn’t sound like _too_ much of a stalker.  Harry had memorized a map (just in case it ever came in handy) so despite never having been in the city before, she knew her way around very well. Harry was jogging to the crime scene before the boys got in their cab.  They didn’t know that, of course.

When she arrived, no one took notice.  It was obvious that Sherlock hadn’t arrived yet. He always brought a certain degree of chaos with him.  Harry knew that no one would officially let her in, so she walked up on her own, keeping her posture confident and her face blank.  She followed the trail of detectives, and people let her pass.  It was one of her skills; pretending like she belonged places.  People don’t see what they don’t want to, and a female deceiving them?  That would _never_ happen.

The trail of people led her to a room two stories above the ground floor.  It was empty of furniture except for a rocking horse in the far corner.  Emergency portable lighting had been set up, presumably by the police.  Scaffolding poles held up part of the ceiling near where a couple of large holes had been knocked though the walls.  A woman’s body was lying face down on the bare floorboards in the middle of the room.  She was wearing a bright pink overcoat and high-heeled pink shoes.  Her hands were flat on the floor on either side of her head.  By her left hand, scratched into the floorboards, was the word “Rache”, and the woman’s index finger rested at the bottom of the ‘e’.

Harry could feel herself smile at the thought of solving a murder before the world’s only Consulting Detective, but at the same time, she didn’t want him to know her full potential.  She didn’t want him to exploit her like all the others had.  Almost unconsciously she began to fit the puzzle together, and she remained frozen for several minutes, her lips moving silently and her eyes glazed over.

She was abruptly brought out of her thoughts when she heard people coming up the stairs.  “…according to her credit cards,” Lestrade was saying. “We’re running them now for contact details.  Hasn’t been here long.  Some kids found her.”

“Jameson?”  John asked when he walked into the room. “How did you get here?”

“I told you not to come,” Sherlock muttered irately, and Lestrade spluttered.

“You need to leave!  This is a crime scene!”  He told her irritably.

“I’m with Sherlock,” Harry said, and shrugged.  “I’ve already figured it out.  Your turn, Sher.”

Sherlock looked at her.  “Figured it out?  How?”

Harry looked back with dead-set eyes.  “I pieced it together.  Sort of like your deduction process, but different.  It’s more of a puzzle than elimination.  Now, solve a murder.  Race you to the finish!”

“This isn’t a _game_ ,” John told her, offended.  “This is a _suicide_.  A person’s _life._ ”

Harry ignored him, still focused on Sherlock.  “Whoever catches the murderer first… gets a favor.”

The detective nodded sharply.  “Deal,” he said, then quickly turned back to the crime scene and began doing what he did.  On her way out, Harry bumped into another man.

“What are you doing here?  Who _are_ you?”  He asked her.

“Cheating is bad,” She informed him, then swiftly left.  As she walked down a road, a black car pulled up behind her, and the driver opened the back door.  He beckoned for Harry to get in the car, and she did.  There was a woman already sitting in the back, texting.

“Hello,” Harry greeted the woman.  “Must Mycroft be like this?”  The woman looked at Harry in surprise.

“How did you…”  She trailed off.  “Have you met him?”

Harry shrugged, smiling thinly.  “I played a little prank, then found him at a café he frequents.  We talked for a few minutes, but that was all.  I’m assuming you’re the one that goes by ‘Anthea’?”

“…Yes,” the woman said hesitantly, and Harry winked at her.

“I know all about your little childhood story,” Harry told the woman, referencing her name. “Have fun with John, too.  He’s going to refuse, by the way.  He’s not the type of person to spy.  I know Mycroft doesn’t trust me, but I’ll do it.  I know that’s not why he picked me up, but it beats having to trip over all of those bugs.  Go ahead and tell him that, I hate repeating myself.”  Harry nodded at Anthea’s phone, forgotten in the woman’s hands.  Anthea was stunned into silence, and stayed that way for the remainder of the ride.

 _Only Sherlock has ever figured it out this quickly,_ Anthea thought.   _Who_ is _this_ _woman?_

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Mycroft.  What’s up?”  Harry said as she got out of the car.  They were in some warehouse, and Mycroft was standing in the centre of the room, leaning on an umbrella.

“Jameson,” He half-greeted.  “What do you want with Sherlock?”

“Oh, you’re bold,” She replied, smiling.  “Didn’t your assistant tell you?  I volunteered to spy on Sher instead of John, because we should all know by now that John isn’t going to do it.  Loyalty, and all that.”

“I don’t want _you_ looking in on my brother,” Mycroft objected.  “I want you to stay away from him.”

Harry shrugged.  “He’s a big boy, Crofty.”

“’Crofty’? What the bloody hell is that?” He looked aghast, and Harry internally congratulated herself for being able to get him flustered.

“Well,” She replied slowly, acting like she was talking to a small child.  “You need a nickname. How about Mike?  Do you like that more?”

“And what’s your name?”  He asked, hoping to catch her off-guard. He failed, face turning sour when she winked at him.

“That’s for me to know and you to wonder,” Harry had to hold back a giggle.  “Mike it is.  Mike, you can call me when you need a spy.  Now go get rejected by John.”  With that, she walked out the door.

“I’ll find my own way back,” She called over her shoulder.  Mycroft watched with wide eyes as she continued down the road, unsure of what to think.

_Who is she?_

* * *

 

Harry was perhaps a block away from the boys’ flat when a cab pulled up beside her.  She smiled, but quickly let her face go blank.

“Hello.  Where do you want to go?”  She politely asked the man.  He motioned for her to get in, and she complied without a moment’s hesitation.

“I’ve heard about you,” He said as a greeting.

“I could say the same,” Harry replied.  “Suitcase in an alley, by the way?  Totally predictable.”

The man looked at her innocently.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I’m just a cab driver.”

Harry nodded knowingly.  “Yes, you are, _Jeff_.  Just a cab driver, with some sort of chronic illness, who happened to murder four people.  Completely ordinary.”  He only looked semi-surprised.

“How do you know?”  Jeff asked, seeming genuinely curious.  Harry shrugged nonchalantly.

“I solved the puzzle.  It’s similar to what Sherlock does, but you’d already know that, wouldn’t you?”

“You can’t outsmart me,” Jeff told her.  “I know how people work.  I know how they think, how they think I think, how they think that I think that they think.”

“Ooh, that sounded complicated,” Harry quipped.  “So, let me guess – you give your victims a choice, don’t you?  You think you're so smart that you’re willing to risk death… you each take a pill, am I right?”

“Yes,” Jeff said uncertainly. 

“But… you’re cautious,” Harry said slowly.  “You’re no psychopath or sociopath… you’re just a man, and while it may be human to gamble, people always chose the side that they believe will win.  And you’re smart, evading Sher, choosing your victims…”

“What are you getting at?”  He asked gruffly.

“That there’s some sort of trick involved,” Harry mused.  “You’re not _that_ smart, to believe you can win against Sherlock, and that’s what you want to do, isn’t it?  So it’s something else, something that doesn’t capture a person’s attention.  Something that goes unnoticed, just as your cover as a cabbie does.”

“You’re a smart one, but you’re wrong,” Jeff said.  Harry wasn’t convinced – she could hear the almost imperceptible tremor in his voice. 

“It isn’t sleight of hand, since that would be too obvious.  The victim would probably be in the view of the pill the entire time, so what else?  The symptoms all pointed to an ingested poison, but your cab was clean… and it’s something that no one thinks about…”

“I’m smarter than them, that’s it,” he insisted. 

Harry looked up, eyes wide.  “The water,” she said triumphantly as the car rolled to a stop.  “It’s in the water, isn’t it?”

Jeff got out and opened her door, pulling out a gun.  “Get out, now,” he ordered her, clearly feeling more in control than he was before.  Harry sighed but did as he said.  She had a feeling it would turn out like this, anyway, so she knew what to do.

Jeff walked her inside an old abandoned building, shoving her inside a random room.  _Not entirely random,_ Harry thought – _it has a lock on the outside._

“If you come out, I’ll kill you,” He said dangerously.  Harry only nodded, making sure to show fear in her eyes.

Jeff walked away and shut the door, the tell-tale sign of the lock clicking loudly.  The woman waited until his footsteps faded – off to pick up Sherlock, Harry presumed – before pulling a stray bobby pin out from her hair, a habit she had developed a long time ago.

She opened up the bobby pin, bending it backwards so that it snapped clean in half.  Jeff hadn't even bothered to restrain her.  Harry was almost insulted, but it doesn’t make sense to complain about your enemy’s mistakes. 

She quickly picked the lock using the broken pin and opened the door slowly, only to hear the sound of a car driving away. 

Her presumption had been right – the cab driver was off to pick up Sherlock. 

 

* * *

 

_Minutes earlier_

“The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens,” Sherlock Holmes concluded in a satisfied voice.  “He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car.  Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it.  Wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake.  I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes away from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed.  Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

John was astonished.  “Pink.  You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?”

“Well, it had to be pink, obviously,” Sherlock told him matter-of-factly.

“Why didn’t I think of that?”  The doctor asked himself.  Then to Sherlock – “The murderer ... You think the murderer has the phone?”

“Maybe she left it when she left her case.  Maybe he took it from her for some reason.  Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.”

“Sorry, what are we doing?  Did I just text a murderer?!  What good will that do?”  John asked hopelessly.  As if on cue, his phone began to ring.  He picked it up and looked at the screen for the Caller I.D., which read:

_(withheld)_

_calling_

John looked across to Sherlock as the phone continued to ring.

“A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her.  If somebody had just found that phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer…”  Sherlock paused dramatically, and the phone stopped ringing.  “…would panic.”  He finished.

Not long afterwards, John caught up to Sherlock in the street and they continued down the road.

“Where are we going?”  John asked.

“Northumberland Street’s a five-minute walk from here.”

John frowned.  “You think he’s stupid enough to go there?”

“No – I think he’s brilliant enough.  I love the brilliant ones.  They’re always so desperate to get caught.”

 _Like you,_ John thought, looking at Sherlock.  “Why?”  He asked.

“Appreciation!  Applause!  At long last the spotlight.  That’s the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience.”

John was still looking pointedly at Sherlock.  “Yeah,” He agreed.  The man remained oblivious to John’s implication, and spun around to indicate the entire area as he continued down the road.

“This is his hunting ground,” Sherlock told John.  “Right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything.  Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go.”  He held up his hands on either side of his head, as if to focus his thoughts.

“Think!”  He barked.  “Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them?  Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?  Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

“Dunno,” John replied.  “Who?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Haven’t the faintest.  Hungry?”

He lowered his hands and led his companion into a small restaurant.  The waiter gestured towards a reserved table near the front window.  “Thank you, Billy,” Sherlock said.  Then to John: “Twenty-two Northumberland Street.  Keep your eyes on it.”

“He isn’t just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he?  He’d need to be mad,” John asked the genius.

“He has killed four people.”

“…Okay,” John replied.

The manager of the restaurant came over, clearly pleased to see Sherlock.  They shook hands, and the manager spoke.

“Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free,” He said, and laid two menus down on the table.  “On the house, for you and for your date.”

“Do you want to eat?”  Sherlock asked John.

“I’m not his date,” John told the manager.

“This man got me off a murder charge,” the manager said, gesturing towards Sherlock.

“This is Angelo,” The detective introduces.

“Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking.”

“He cleared my name,” Angelo said.

“I cleared it a bit.  Anything happening opposite?”

“Nothing.”  Angelo looked at John.  “But for this man, I’d have gone to prison.”

“You did go to prison,” Sherlock interjected.  Angelo ignored him, only looking at John.

“I’ll get a candle for the table.  It’s more romantic.”

“I’m not his date!”  John announced indignantly as Angelo walked away.

“You may as well eat.  We might have a long wait,” Sherlock said to his companion.  Angelo came back with a small glass bowl containing a lit tea-light.  He put it on the table and gave John a thumbs-up before turning and walking away again.

“Thanks,” John grumbled.

“Look across the street.  Taxi,” Sherlock said.  “Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out.  Why a taxi?  Oh, that’s clever.  Is it clever?  Why is it clever?”

“That’s him?”  John asked.

“Don’t stare,” Sherlock told him.

“You’re staring.”

“We can’t both stare,” Sherlock said and got to his feet, grabbing his coat and scarf and heading for the door.  John picked up his own jacket and followed, completely forgetting to take his walking cane with him.  Outside the door, Sherlock shrugged himself into his coat while keeping his eyes fixed on the taxi.  The passenger continued to look around him, then turned and looked out the back window.  His gaze fell on the restaurant and he looked at it for a few moments while Sherlock stared back at him, then the man turned towards the front of the vehicle and the taxi began to pull away from the kerb.  

Sherlock immediately headed towards it without bothering to check the road that he was running into and was almost run over by a car coming from his left.  The driver slammed on the brakes and stopped the car but Sherlock, always keen to take the quickest route, allowed his forward impetus to carry him onto the top of the bonnet.  He rolled over the bonnet, landed on his feet on the other side and then ran after the taxi.  As the driver of the car angrily sounded his horn, John put one hand on the bonnet and vaulted over the front of the car, apologizing to the driver as he went.

“Sorry!”  John yelled, then chased after Sherlock, who ran a few yards up the road before realizing that he wasn’t going to catch the taxi and slowed to a halt.  John caught up and stopped beside him.

“I’ve got the cab number,” John announced.

“Good for you.”  Sherlock brought his hands up to either side of his head and concentrated, calling up a mental map of the local area and overlaying it with images of the streets along the route which he calculated that the taxi must take.

Quickly, Sherlock said, “Right turn, one way, road works, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights.”  He raced towards a man who was unlocking the door to a nearby building, grabbing him and shoving him out of the way before charging into the building.  John hurried after Sherlock and raised an apologetic hand to the man as he went.

They raced up the stairs and out onto a metal fire escape, Sherlock taking two stairs at a time as John struggled behind him.

“Come on, John!”  Sherlock shouted.  Having reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock ran to the edge and looked over.  He galloped down another staircase that lead down the side of the building to another door one floor lower.  While Sherlock was climbing onto the railing, John scrambled to catch up.  They paused for a moment before leaping across the gap to the other building.

“Come _on,_ John, we’re losing him!”  Sherlock yelled behind him. They caught up to the taxi and Sherlock pulled out an ID badge, flashing it to the driver.

“Police!  Open her up!”  He demanded.  The genius tugged open the door and stared at the passenger, then straightened up in exasperation just as John joined him.

“No.  Teeth, tan: what – Californian?”  Sherlock looked at the passenger once again.  “L.A., Santa Monica.  Just arrived.”  He straightened up again, grimacing.

“How could you _possibly_ know that?”  John asked.

Sherlock replied, “The luggage.”  Then, to the passenger, he said, “It’s probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?”

“Sorry, are you guys the police?”  The passenger asked in confusion.

“Yeah,” Sherlock replied, flashing his badge once again.

“Yeah,” The passenger confirmed, smiling.

“Welcome to London,” the detective said, the promptly walked away.  John followed.

“Basically just a cab that happened to slow down,” John said.

“Basically,” Sherlock confirmed.

“Not the murderer.”

“Not the murderer, no.”

“Wrong country.  That’s a good alibi.”

“As they go,” Sherlock said, switching his ID from one hand to another.  John noticed.

“Hey, where… where did you get this?”  He asked, reaching for the ID.  Sherlock gave it to him.

“Right,” John said, then read the name on the card, “Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“Yeah.  I pickpocket him when he’s annoying.  You can keep that one, I’ve got plenty at the flat.”  John nodded, then looked down at the cards again, laughing quietly.

“What?”  Sherlock asked.

“Nothing, just…  ‘Welcome to London’.”

The two boys chuckled, then turned and ran back down the road. 

 

* * *

 

“Are these _human_ eyes?”  Detective Donovan asked Sherlock incredulously. Currently, half the police force was searching the boys’ flat for drugs.  Sherlock was, for lack of a better word, infuriated.  He had already proven to John that his limp was psychosomatic, so all he had to do was locate the killer.  He did not have _time_ for this.

“Put those back!”  He shouted.

“They were in the microwave!”  Donovan shouted back.

“It’s an experiment,” Sherlock justified.

“Keep looking, guys,” Lestrade told everyone, standing and turning to Sherlock.  “Or,” He said, “you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down.”

“This is childish,” Sherlock said, pacing angrily.

“Well, I’m dealing with a child.  Sherlock, this is our case.  I’m letting you in, but you do not go off on your own.  Clear?”

“Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”  Sherlock argued.  Lestrade looked annoyed.

“It stops being pretend if they find anything.”

“I am clean!”  Sherlock protested.

“Is your flat?  All of it?”

“I don’t even smoke,” he said, unbuttoning the cuff of his left sleeve to show the nicotine patch on his lower arm.

“Neither do I,” Lestrade replied, pulling up his own sleeve to show a similar patch.  Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“So let’s work together,” Lestrade continued.  “We’ve found Rachel.”

“Who is she?”  Sherlock asked, turning back to the detective inspector.

“Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”

Sherlock frowned and asked, “Her daughter?  Why would she write her daughter’s name?  Why?”

“Never mind that,” Anderson butted in. “We found the case.  According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath.”  He looked pointedly at Sherlock, gesturing to the pink suitcase in the middle of the living room.

“I’m not a psychopath, Anderson.  I’m a high-functioning sociopath.  Do your research.”  Sherlock turned back to Lestrade and said, “You need to bring Rachel in.  You need to question her.   _I_ need to question her.”

“She’s dead,” said Lestrade.

“Excellent!”  Sherlock shouted.  John looked startled.

“How, when and why?”  Sherlock continued. “Is there a connection?  There _has_ to be.”

Lestrade shook his head.  “Well, I doubt it, since she’s been dead for fourteen years.  Technically, she was never alive.  Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago.”

The detective looked confused.  “No, that’s ... that’s not right.  How ... Why would she do that?  Why?”

“Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?  Yup – sociopath; I’m seeing it now.”  Anderson said.  Sherlock turned to him with an exasperated look on his face.

“She didn’t _think_ about her daughter.  She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails.  She was dying.  It took effort.  It would have _hurt_.”

“You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it,” John said.  “Well, maybe he ... I don’t know, talks to them?  Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.”

“Yeah, but that was ages ago.  Why would she still be upset?”  Sherlock said, then stopped as he realized everyone in the flat had gone silent.

“Not good?”  He asked John.

“ _Bit_ not good, yeah.”  John replied.

Yeah, but if you were dying ... if you’d been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?”  Sherlock wouldn’t let it go.

“Please, God, let me live.”  John said flatly.

“Oh, use your imagination!”  Sherlock shouted.

“I don’t _have_ to,” John replied with a pained look. Sherlock paused momentarily before continuing.

“Yeah, but if you were clever, _really_ clever ... Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers: she _was_ clever. She’s trying to _tell_ us something.”

Mrs. Hudson came to the door of the living room. “Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t order a taxi. Go away,” Sherlock snapped. He continued pacing as Mrs. Hudson looked around the room.

“Oh, dear. They’re making such a mess. What are they looking for?” She asked.

“It’s a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson,” John answered flatly.

“But they’re just for my hip. They’re herbal soothers…” The landlady replied anxiously.

“Shut up, everybody, shut up!” Sherlock shouted across the room. Mrs. Hudson jumped, but that didn’t deter the detective. “Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. I’m trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You’re putting me off.”

“What? My _face_ is?” Anderson asked incredulously.

“Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back,” Lestrade ordered. After some protest, Anderson turned his back.

“What about your taxi?” Mrs. Hudson asked innocently. When Sherlock shouted at her, she left the room in a rush.

Sherlock smiled. “Oh.”

Everyone looked at him in confusion.

“Ah! She was clever, clever, yes! She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn’t _lose_ her phone, she never lost it. She _planted_ it on him. When she got out of the car, she _knew_ that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer.”

“But how?” Lestrade asked.

“Wha...? What do you mean, how?” Lestrade only shrugged in reply.

“Rachel!” Sherlock shouted triumphantly. “Don’t you see? _Rachel_!” When everyone looks at him blankly, he laughs in disbelief. “Oh, look at you lot. You’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name.”

“Then what is it?” John asked sternly.

“John, on the luggage, there’s a label. E-mail address.”

“Er, Jennie.pink@mephone.org.uk.”

“Oh, I’ve been too slow,” Sherlock muttered to himself. “She didn’t have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it’s a smartphone, it’s e-mail enabled. So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address... and all together now, the password is?”

John walked over to stand beside him and said, “Rachel.”

“So we can read her e-mails,” Anderson sneered. “So what?”

“Anderson, don’t talk out loud,” Sherlock said harshly. “You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It’s a smartphone, it’s got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her.”

“Unless he got rid of it,” Lestrade pointed out.

“We know he didn’t.” John replied. Mrs. Hudson came to the door.

“Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver…” She said, looking anxious.

“Mrs. Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soother?” Sherlock asked. As the phone works, he said, “We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter. We’re going to have to move fast. This phone battery won’t last forever.”

“We’ll just have a map reference, not a name,” Lestrade said.

“It’s a start!” Sherlock replied loudly. “It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It’s the first proper lead that we’ve had.” He ignored John saying his name until he asked, “What is it? Quickly, where?”

“It’s here,” John told him. “It’s in 221 Baker Street.”

“How can it be here? _How_?”

“Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere,” Lestrade offered.

“What, and I didn’t notice it? _Me_? I didn’t notice?” Sherlock asked, then went back to muttering to himself.

John, to Lestrade, said, “Anyway, we texted him and he called back.”

“Guys, we’re also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim…” Lestrade announced. Sherlock tuned them out, thinking. John noticed.

“Sherlock, you okay?” The doctor asked.

“What?” Sherlock asked vaguely. “Yeah, yeah, I-I’m fine.”

“So, how can the phone be here?”

“Dunno,” Sherlock said, looking out the window at something.

John got up to get his own phone out of his jeans pocket, saying, “I’ll try it again.”

“Good idea,” said Sherlock, moving towards the door.

“Where are _you_ going?” John asked him.

“Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won’t be long.”

“You sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock assured, and walked out the door.

 

* * *

 

 “Taxi for Sherlock Holmes,” the cab driver announced as he leaned casually against the side of the taxi.  Sherlock stepped forward, closing the door to the flat behind him.

“I didn’t order a taxi,” the detective told the man.

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one,” he replied smoothly.

“You’re the cabbie.  The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street.” Sherlock concluded.  “It was _you_ , not your passenger.”

“See?  No-one ever thinks about the cabbie.  It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of an head.  Proper advantage for a serial killer.”  Sherlock took a few more steps forward and looked up towards the windows of his flat.

“Is this a confession?”

“Oh, yeah.  And I’ll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise.”  The cabbie assured.

“Why?”  Sherlock asked.

“Because you’re not going to do that,” he said.

“Am I not?”

“I didn’t kill those four people, Mr. Holmes.  I spoke to them... and they killed themselves.  And if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing.”  The man leaned forward, speaking softly.  “I will never tell you what I said.”  After a moment, he straightened up and started to walk around the front of the cab.

“No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result.”  Sherlock said.

“And you won’t ever understand how those people died.  What kind of result do you care about?”

The man turned again and continued around to the driver’s door.  Getting in, he sat down and closed the door, settling into his seat and ignoring Sherlock.  Biting his lip, Sherlock walked closer to the cab, looking up again at the flat windows, then he bent and looked into the open side window of the cab.

“If I _wanted_ to understand, what would I do?”  Sherlock asked.

“Let me take you for a ride.”

“So you can kill me too?”

“Oh, I’m not going to kill you.  Not yet.”

 

* * *

 

Harry had nothing to do but wait.  Still, it didn’t take long for the car to pull up.  She made sure to remain hidden, but jogged so she would be within hearing distance. 

“…College.  Why here?”  Sherlock was saying. 

“It’s open; cleaners are in,” Jeff replied.  “One thing about being a cabbie: you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder.  I’m surprised more of us don’t branch out.”

“And you just walk your victims in?  How?”

Jeff raised a pistol and pointed it at Sherlock, who simply rolled his eyes and turned away.

“Oh, dull,” The detective complained. 

“Don’t worry, it gets better,” Jeff told him. 

“You can’t make people take their own lives at gunpoint.”

“I don’t.  It’s much better than that.”  Jeff lowered his gun, then asked, “I don’t need this with you, because you’ll just follow me, won’t you?”

He began walking toward the building confidently, and Harry had to hold back a groan when Sherlock did, indeed, follow.

Harry shadowed the two inside the building.  Jeff opened the door of a room and stood aside, beckoning for Sherlock to go inside.  After Sherlock walked in, Jeff released the door to let it swing close and Harry slipped inside. 

 “Well, what do you think?”  Jeff asked after turning on the lights.  They were in a large classroom that had long fixed wooden benches and free-standing plastic chairs.  “It’s up to you,” Jeff continued.  “You’re the one who’s going to die here.”

“No, he’s not,” Harry interjected.  The two men whipped around. 

“Now how did _you_ get out?”  Jeff asked. 

“You underestimate me,” the woman replied quietly.  “Now we’re going to leave.  Come on, Sher.”

“He has a gun,” The detective pointed out.

“Yeah, yeah, I know you want to figure out how he did it.  I can tell you all about it at the flat, but we’re _leaving_.”

“No you’re not,” Jeff said, pulling out the pistol once again.  “Sit down,” he ordered, moving the gun in the direction of one of the chairs. 

“Fine,” Harry said, raising her hands in the air.  “I’m sitting.  Do your thing.”

The three of them sat, Harry the closest to the window.  Jeff took out a small glass bottle with a screw top and put it onto the table in front of the detective.  Inside was a single capsule.  Sherlock looked at it but didn’t react. 

“Ooh, I like this bit,” the cabbie muttered to himself.  “So you don’t get it yet, do you?”

“Don’t get _what_?”  Sherlock asked. 

Jeff reached into his right pocket and took out an identical bottle containing an identical capsule and put it onto the table beside the first bottle.

“You weren’t expecting that, were you?”  He asked Sherlock.  “Ooh, you’re going to love this.  Sherlock Holmes, here in the flesh.  That website of yours: your fan told me about it.”

“My fan?”

“You are brilliant,” Jeff said.  “You are.  A proper genius.  “The Science of Deduction.”  Now that is proper thinking.  Between you and me sitting here, why can’t people think?”

The two continued talking, but Harry wasn’t listening.  _No water_ , she thought.  _Either I was wrong or he doesn’t want Sherlock dead.  He said ‘fan’… colleague or boss?  Boss.  Who doesn’t want Sherlock dead but would go through this much effort?_

“…give you the good bottle or the bad bottle?  You can choose either one,” Jeff was saying.

“You bloody bastard,” Harry muttered, then leapt from her seat, wrapping her hands around the cabbie’s throat. 

“What are you _doing_?”  Sherlock yelled.  Harry ignored him. 

“Where is he?”  She growled in Jeff’s face.  When he gave her a smug look, she repeated her question.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Jeff said innocently. 

“ _Liar_!  Tell me where he is!”

“Jameson!”  Sherlock shouted.  “He has a _gun!”_

“I don’t bloody care!  Where.  Is.  He?”

“You’ll find out soon,” The cabbie said with a feral grin, and a shot rang out.

 

* * *

 

Elsewhere in the college, John was running through corridors. 

“Sherlock?”  He called out, running from door to door, trying them and peering in through windows.”

It seemed like forever until John burst through a door and finally saw what he was looking for.  His eyes filled with horror.  Inside a classroom, in the building across from his, Sherlock lifted his gaze from the bottle he was holding.

John lifted his gun, breathing deeply, his basic training coming back to him.  And for the second time that night, the sound of a bullet rang through the air.

 

* * *

 

Harry woke to the sound of a steady beeping.  _Hospital,_ she thought, groggily sitting up.  Almost immediately, a nurse rushed in. 

“No, don’t sit up,” the nurse told her.  “You’re recovering from a gunshot wound to the stomach and several bruised ribs.  If you weren’t brought in when you were, you wouldn’t have made it.”

“Yeah, yeah.  Where’s Sherlock?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t recognize that name,” the nurse said, sounding genuinely apologetic.  “I can ask around, if you want.”

“No,” Harry croaked.  “It’s fine.”  She should have known that he wouldn’t visit, anyway.

Besides, she’d heal herself and be right back to normal.

So why did she care?

 

* * *

 

Sherlock and John were walking down Baker Street when a car pulled up. 

“Sherlock, that’s him,” John said quietly.  “That’s the man I was talking to you about.”

“I know exactly who that is,” Sherlock said, glaring at the man. 

“So, another case cracked,” The man said.  “How very public spirited... though that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

“What are you doing here?  Sherlock asked sharply. 

“As ever, I’m concerned about you,” the man replied. 

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern’.”

“Always so aggressive.  Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”

“Oddly enough, no!”  Sherlock said petulantly. 

“We have more in common than you like to believe.  This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer... and you know how it always upset Mummy.”

“I upset her?  Me?”  The detective asked, and the man glowered at him.  “It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.”

“No, no, wait.  Mummy?  Who’s Mummy?”  John asked, frowning. 

“Mother – our mother.  This is my brother, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, and John stared at the man in amazement. 

“Putting on weight again?”  The detective asked his brother. 

“Losing it, in fact.”

“He’s your brother?”  John asked Sherlock. 

“Of course he’s my brother.”

“So he’s not…”  John trailed off, and the brothers look at him as he shrugs in embarrassment.  “I dunno, a criminal mastermind?”

“Close enough,” Sherlock said.

“For goodness’ sake.  I occupy a minor position in the British government,” Mycroft said. 

“He is the British government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.”

Mycroft sighed.  “Have you visited her yet?”

“Who?”  John and Sherlock asked in sync. 

“Jameson.  She’s in the hospital.”

“What?”  John asked.  “How’d she get there?”

“By an ambulance, I’m assuming,” Sherlock quipped. 

“She was shot by the man that you killed,” Mycroft said. 

“ _Shot?”_ John asked.  Sherlock looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable, but the emotion passed so quickly that John doubted that he’d seen it at all.

“We’ll pop by,” Sherlock muttered. “Mycroft can bring flowers.  Girls like flowers.”

“She got shot for _you,”_ John grumbled, but he, unsurprisingly, went unheard.

 

* * *

 

Harry couldn’t sleep.

The nurses wanted to keep her overnight, but she knew that if she let her guard down, her ever-present Occlumency barriers would fall, and she did _not_ want to explain nightmares that made lights flicker and small objects explode.

Statute aside, it was inconvenient. Harry tried to stay away from magic after leaving Hogwarts; she’d tried being an Auror, for a while, but Hermione tried to stick her with a therapist.

Harry _couldn’t_ talk to anyone. She’d never learned how; expressing herself was something she _didn’t do._

She would readily admit that her coping mechanisms were subpar. She was brilliant at computers and apparently had a brain for puzzles; rejecting magic entirely, even though she wasn’t doing it overtly, wasn’t exactly healthy.

But Harry would do what she had to do.

She couldn’t stay on blood-soaked land.

So she came here, to poison-soaked land.

Harry choked back a laugh. She was a mess. A completely pathetic mess. And it got her shot.

But it was fine. Everything was fine. She’d just hack into some important server, somewhere – that always made her feel better. Yes, that sounded good.

Harry stood up gingerly, cringing. The nurse at the front desk tried to convince her to stay, but Harry waved the concerned man off.

Maybe she _would_ go to America. She could always find something interesting there. Demons, or aliens, or something.

The door closed behind her.

 

* * *

 

“She’s signed out,” the nurse told them. “Just a minute ago.”

John sighed. The _one_ person Sherlock seemed interested in was _just_ as obnoxious as he seemed to be.

Well. Nothing to do but find her.

With John’s luck, she was probably already in some life-threatening situation.

 

* * *

 

Harry glared at the sky. Which had a hole in it.

_“WHEN I SAID ALIENS, I DIDN’T MEAN IT LITERALLY.”_


End file.
